


Otherwise

by yet_intrepid



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Denethor's A+ Parenting, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Denethor advises. Boromir argues. Faramir overhears. Mithrandir supports.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Otherwise

Mithrandir is in Minas Tirith and Faramir’s heart is light; after he labors at swordplay in the cool mornings and endures his tutor, Lord Hirgil, in the afternoons, he goes at once to knock at the door of the wizard’s chambers. Late afternoons and often evenings (when neither he nor Mithrandir is called by Denethor) are taken up with discussion—history, philosophy, culture, language, government, ethics in war. Sometimes they speak Sindarin rather than Westron and then the words come more slowly for Faramir, but they come nevertheless, for Mithrandir will feign ignorance of any Westron word Faramir uses. Mithrandir smokes his pipe and Faramir snacks pensively on almonds, and they keep pleasant company. Faramir feels his mind growing ever sharper, like a knife against a whetstone.

This means, however, that he sees less of his brother.

This Faramir regrets, but Boromir has no patience for lore unless Faramir is the one to recount it to him, his Sindarin is nearly faded from memory, and he prefers to develop battlefield ethics as he finds himself needing them. When Faramir realizes he has gone through the day hardly seeing his brother, he explains to himself that Boromir dwells in the city, while it may be many years before Mithrandir comes again.

One day, going from lessons to Mithrandir’s sitting room, he stops short, because he hears his name. What is more, he hears his father speaking his name.

“Lord Hirgil tells me that Faramir is very troublesome to teach.” Lord Denethor’s tone is a little distant, a little cold, a little disdainful.  Faramir stops against the wall and listens, though he does not put his head into the room. “I am of a mind to speak to him firmly on the matter; if he does not excel with the sword then he must be tractable at lessons.”

“I have never heard such talk.” That is Boromir, cutting in, with much more energy and volume in his voice than in Denethor’s. “All to whom I speak tell me that Faramir is an excellent scholar, and I have found his depth of knowledge—not to speak of his love for it—far greater than my own.”

Faramir’s heart warms at that. Boromir has no fondness for study, but Faramir feels in the words that Boromir is fiercely proud of him.

Denethor is not half so pleased. “A scholar is what he seeks to be, to be sure. And in that he oversteps himself. He is a student only, and should confine himself to absorbing what those more learned than he can teach him. Instead, he fancies himself a scholar, with opinions of his own.”

Faramir draws farther back against the wall. So, it is this again. He does not see the issue with forming his own theories as he continues to learn, and only two days past Mithrandir himself called him a “promising young scholar.” But he answers to his father and Lord Hirgil, and this is not the first time they have complained of his behavior in lessons.

But Boromir is speaking again, stubbornly. “You never reprimanded me for offering opinions, Father. Even in the council, when I had barely begun to learn strategy and law, when I was only fourteen as Faramir is now, you freely allowed me to speak.”

“You,” begins Denethor, “are not Faramir. For you, my son, things are otherwise—”

“No,” says Boromir, and Faramir hears hints of anger underlying his words. “No, I am not Faramir. He will be wiser far than I.”

And Boromir’s footsteps begin to leave the room, but Faramir barely has time to wonder if he should be caught eavesdropping before Denethor calls out.

“Boromir!” he says. “Boromir, my son, listen to me. You have a noble spirit and a generous heart, which lead you ever to defend your brother. But you must not allow them to blind you.”

“Blind me?” repeats Boromir, incredulously, and Faramir squeezes his eyes shut as if he can block out the sting of the words to come.

“You must learn,” Denethor goes on, in a low and deliberate voice, “to leave behind those who will hold you back. You must learn to recognize assets and hindrances. For the sake of your future, Boromir, you must begin to recognize causes which will not repay the valuable time, effort, and resources you pour into them. Recognize them, and set them aside.”

Footsteps again, slow and heavy, and then Boromir’s voice.

“I would not set aside my brother if it cost me the stewardship and my very life.”

Denethor begins to shout. Faramir flees.

\----

He reaches Mithrandir’s sitting room door a little out of breath and struggling to compose himself. But he is expected, he knows, and he has already delayed, so he lowers his head and knocks determinedly.

As he drops his hand, the door is opening to reveal gray robes and soft firelight.

“Ah, Faramir,” Mithrandir says, and Faramir steps in. He takes in a deep breath, and as he lets it go his composure slips with it.

He feels Mithrandir looking at him, and then a hand on his shoulder is nudging him to a chair.

“I took the liberty of having your customary almonds sent up, although you had not yet arrived,” Mithrandir says, settling down in the other armchair and indicating the low table between them. “And I thought I would have cherries, if you would like some.”

Faramir nods. He does not trust himself to speak.

So Mithrandir talks, talks about Faramir’s recent attempts to translate a segment of the Lay of Leithian from Sindarin, and how his rendition compares to two other translations—one a very literal version, the other cast into strict meter and rhyme. Faramir listens, quietly eating almonds and the occasional cherry.

“A project like the Lay of Leithian is a life’s work,” Mithrandir comments at last. “Would you consider such an aim?”

Faramir twists his hands thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” he says. “It would be a more pleasant profession than war, but less necessary in these times, I suppose.”

“Hmm,” says Mithrandir, and Faramir looks at him, questioning. Mithrandir shakes his head. “Never underestimate the importance of knowledge, Faramir. Nor yet that of poetry and tales. They strengthen the heart of a people rather better than do fine armor and sharp blades.”

Faramir smiles a little. “Still,” he says, “I do not think my father would approve of my choosing a career in translation. Mordor threatens our borders, and he would think me a coward if I did not join those who fought.”

“Hmm,” says Mithrandir again. “Well, who can tell where your path may lie? Still, Faramir, you do not have the heart of a coward, whatever your father may say.”

Their eyes meet then and Faramir feels himself coming to pieces under the wizard’s gaze. Suddenly he is very aware that Mithrandir, who has stayed in Minas Tirith only a handful of times, thinks more of him than his own father has or likely ever will, and that Mithrandir and his support will soon be gone again, but that Denethor with his stinging criticisms will remain. Suddenly he is very aware that, though he loves his father, though he knows his duty, he wishes things were otherwise.

“I wish you were my father,” he says.

Mithrandir looks at him with grave affection. Faramir realizes what he has said and flees.


End file.
